reception area. He was dressed in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, open at the neck. His shirt looked crisp and unwrinkled, as if he’d just put it on.
But in contrast to his fresh clothes, he looked depleted and exhausted. Although I barely knew him, I could see the strain he was under. It showed in the deep lines creasing his face, the prominent bags under his eyes, the cluster of wrinkles between his brows. His large eyes glistened, seemingly with tears, but probably from exhaustion.
The overhead fluorescents were off, but in the dim light I could see that the DC headquarters of Shays Abbott were decorated in the same hard white glossy surfaces as the Boston offices—the white stone floors polished like glass, the frosted glass walls, the sharp-edged white leather sofas.
Dorothy seemed a little flustered to meet Gideon Parnell. Even at a time of urgency, this was a fan girl moment for her. She tried not to show how thrilled she was to shake his hand, to be in the presence of such a historic figure. But she couldn’t hide it from me. I had never seen her smile so much and act so deferential. It was as if Jesus Christ himself had come to visit.
Gideon was gracious but terse, and obviously distracted. He led us through a maze of hallways to his office.
“What happened to the forty-eight hours?” I asked.
“Just minutes before the story was posted,” Gideon said, “I receivedan e-mail from the editor, Julian Gunn, saying that they believed they were in imminent danger of being scooped by a competitor, so they had to run it immediately.”
“That’s a lie,” Dorothy said. “They saw how hard we were pushing back and they wanted to get it out before we disproved it.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not the reason. If they thought we were really going to prove it false, they wouldn’t risk running it. Too damaging to their reputation.”
“We disagree,” Dorothy said to Gideon.
It was out of character for her to contradict me in a meeting with a client. It was a little unprofessional. Not that I cared, particularly. I cut her some slack; she wasn’t herself; she was in the presence of greatness.
“What about the interview with Mandy Seeger this morning?” I asked.
“I canceled it. They broke their side of the deal.”
“I can’t help but wonder whether they ran it earlier because I was rattling the cage,” I said, and Gideon said nothing.
His office looked exactly as I’d expected: spacious, classical, fastidiously neat. Decorated to impress, for public display. There was a long mahogany conference table. A bottle of Old Overholt rye on a shelf. Two of the walls were ego walls, walls of fame, crowded with photographs of Gideon with a litany of the great and the powerful and the famous. My eye was caught by a photo of him in a golf cart with Barack Obama and Bill Clinton.
His assistant, a plain middle-aged blond woman named Rose, who must have come into work early, offered us coffee. It was a little weak, but it did the job.
“We need to talk,” he said.
21
W e gathered around the mahogany table. Gideon sat at the head.
“We are well and truly screwed,” he said. “Has it been picked up by any other websites yet?”
I shook my head.
“Give it a couple of minutes,” Dorothy said.
“I’m sorry about this,” I said. “I really thought we’d have killed this thing by now.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Gideon. “This was always a Hail Mary pass.”
“We’re not done yet,” I said.
Gideon looked at me, tilting his head. “What the hell are you talking about? It’s out there now, Heller.”
“Lots of things are out there on the Internet. Websites about how reptile extraterrestrials are running the US government.”
He shook his head, as if in disgust, his eyes closed. “The world has changed since the Kennedy administration. Back then, everybody knew that Jack Kennedy had a parade of women coming through the White House. But not a word of it ever made
But in contrast to his fresh clothes, he looked depleted and exhausted. Although I barely knew him, I could see the strain he was under. It showed in the deep lines creasing his face, the prominent bags under his eyes, the cluster of wrinkles between his brows. His large eyes glistened, seemingly with tears, but probably from exhaustion.
The overhead fluorescents were off, but in the dim light I could see that the DC headquarters of Shays Abbott were decorated in the same hard white glossy surfaces as the Boston offices—the white stone floors polished like glass, the frosted glass walls, the sharp-edged white leather sofas.
Dorothy seemed a little flustered to meet Gideon Parnell. Even at a time of urgency, this was a fan girl moment for her. She tried not to show how thrilled she was to shake his hand, to be in the presence of such a historic figure. But she couldn’t hide it from me. I had never seen her smile so much and act so deferential. It was as if Jesus Christ himself had come to visit.
Gideon was gracious but terse, and obviously distracted. He led us through a maze of hallways to his office.
“What happened to the forty-eight hours?” I asked.
“Just minutes before the story was posted,” Gideon said, “I receivedan e-mail from the editor, Julian Gunn, saying that they believed they were in imminent danger of being scooped by a competitor, so they had to run it immediately.”
“That’s a lie,” Dorothy said. “They saw how hard we were pushing back and they wanted to get it out before we disproved it.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not the reason. If they thought we were really going to prove it false, they wouldn’t risk running it. Too damaging to their reputation.”
“We disagree,” Dorothy said to Gideon.
It was out of character for her to contradict me in a meeting with a client. It was a little unprofessional. Not that I cared, particularly. I cut her some slack; she wasn’t herself; she was in the presence of greatness.
“What about the interview with Mandy Seeger this morning?” I asked.
“I canceled it. They broke their side of the deal.”
“I can’t help but wonder whether they ran it earlier because I was rattling the cage,” I said, and Gideon said nothing.
His office looked exactly as I’d expected: spacious, classical, fastidiously neat. Decorated to impress, for public display. There was a long mahogany conference table. A bottle of Old Overholt rye on a shelf. Two of the walls were ego walls, walls of fame, crowded with photographs of Gideon with a litany of the great and the powerful and the famous. My eye was caught by a photo of him in a golf cart with Barack Obama and Bill Clinton.
His assistant, a plain middle-aged blond woman named Rose, who must have come into work early, offered us coffee. It was a little weak, but it did the job.
“We need to talk,” he said.
21
W e gathered around the mahogany table. Gideon sat at the head.
“We are well and truly screwed,” he said. “Has it been picked up by any other websites yet?”
I shook my head.
“Give it a couple of minutes,” Dorothy said.
“I’m sorry about this,” I said. “I really thought we’d have killed this thing by now.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Gideon. “This was always a Hail Mary pass.”
“We’re not done yet,” I said.
Gideon looked at me, tilting his head. “What the hell are you talking about? It’s out there now, Heller.”
“Lots of things are out there on the Internet. Websites about how reptile extraterrestrials are running the US government.”
He shook his head, as if in disgust, his eyes closed. “The world has changed since the Kennedy administration. Back then, everybody knew that Jack Kennedy had a parade of women coming through the White House. But not a word of it ever made
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